


This Town is Only Gonna Get Worse

by gayspaceelf



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Noir, Film Noir, M/M, Pre-Slash, mlm author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 13:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5249507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayspaceelf/pseuds/gayspaceelf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jacob Frye is trouble. The problem is, he's exactly the kind of trouble that Ned can't refuse.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Noir AU pre-slash</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Town is Only Gonna Get Worse

 

 

Ned Wynert was sitting in some shitty bar in Soho, taking a packet of cigarettes from his breast pocket, when an old almost-friend came to him for help.

The door to _The Jay Walk_ swung open on its hinges, letting in a cold burst of October air, the man blocking out what little light there was from the street. Ned took a moment to remember where his 1911 Colt .45 was, his fingers twitching, before the man spoke.

“Those’ll kill you, you know?”

Ned didn’t look up, but he placed the cigarette back in the box, so that it was just poking over the top.

“Fancy meeting you here, Frye.”

The bar was pathetically small and pathetically empty. Aside from himself, and the brick wall of a man standing in the doorway, the only person was the rather terrified bartender. And he seemed more concerned with keeping his nose out of whatever business happened there, only giving a few concerned glances from the other end of the room. 

There was a determination in Jacob’s movements, something that made Ned know that he was about to be asked a favour. Placing his hat on the bar, the taller man sat next to him, looking at Ned like he was some kind of miracle worker. Ned didn’t like it, or he knew he shouldn’t like it, or maybe both. It was hard to tell. Pulling the discarded cigarette back out of the box, Ned searched himself for some matches absentmindedly, placing the box on the bar in front of him, and keeping his gaze glued to Jacob, save for a few brief glances towards his pockets. “Got a light?”

Jacob presented him with a chrome lighter.

“Thanks.”

The assassin was after something, he knew it. And he knew that if the man was coming to him, it meant that it was probably more trouble than it was worth. Ned let out a ring of smoke, resting one elbow on the bartop.

“Let me buy you a drink.”

It wasn’t a question, but Ned refused anyway. He knew what this conversation was about and he didn’t need to be buttered up about it.

“What’s the job?”

Jacob paused, like he wasn’t expecting Ned to have already know what he was going to ask. Then his smile softened.

“There’s something been stolen from us. We want you to help us get it back.”

To succeed in this business, you had to learn two things. One, always get paid up front. And two, always, always trust that little warning voice at the back of your head.

Ned Wynert was very good at what he did. And something about this job was making him uncomfortable as hell.

Ned took another puff of his cigarette, before holding it almost delicately between two fingers, and shook his head. “Piss off Frye. I ain’t got time to run errands for you.”

Jacob shot him the sheepish smile he always kept close, next to his .455 Webley-Fosbery. The smirk on his face was unmistakeable, an unspoken proposal for something that made Ned squirm, but, as always, he did nothing more than offer. Leaning forward, he pulled a cigarette from the box that lay on the counter next to Ned’s hat, toying with it between his fingers.

“You know, this would mean I’d be in debt to you.”

 “Even if this wasn’t below my pay grade, something about this feels like bad news.”

“Would it sweeten the deal if I said the plan was Evie’s?”

“Evie’s?” Ned repeated, as if he may not have heard properly. That changed things, made the job possible, plausible even. The other Frye twin was pretty as a summer day's con, but infinitely more reliable. He sighed, rising from the bar to move to the slatted windows that overlooked the street. There was nothing much to look at, admittedly, but it gave him an excuse. The alley the bar looked out on was unimposing, a boarded up shop that once was a barbers directly opposite the bar, the only light a few scraps from the neon lights at the Windmill a few streets over. Ned pushed up his glasses with the palm of his hand free.

“This isn’t gonna be like that last job you tried, is it? The one with the Great Whatsit. How did that get pulled off?”

“No idea”, Jacob admitted, “I even called up Evie and even she said, 'Damned if I know.'”

Ned took a moment to think, concentrating on a knocked-over lamp in the street outside as he did.

“Say I do help you out on this. What’s my cut?”

Jacob paused, like he wasn’t sure what Ned was talking about. Ned sighed, turning away from the window, but not returning to his seat. “My cut, Frye, what’s my damn cut?”

“I thought the deal was”, Jacob raised an eyebrow as he got up from his stool “that we dealt with the Blighters for you. In return for your _services_.”

“You know, normally that’d be the case. But you owe me for that cock-up with Pearl Attaway.”

The Frye’s last mistake had cost him dearly. He could still remember, picture perfectly, how the warehouse had lit up the sky, the kind of blazing fire he hadn't seen since the war. There'd been a full shipment of merchandise in that warehouse before it went up in flames, and Ned had no way to know whether it’d been liberated or just burnt to ash.

The taller man chuckled, moving closer to him, until they were almost inches apart. Ned had always liked Jacob’s laugh. It wasn’t low or mirthless, like he’d become accustomed to soldiers laughing. He spoke, but Ned didn’t quite hear what the words were, distracted as he was by how Jacob’s chest moved as he inhaled and exhaled.

“So, is that good enough?”

“Hmm?” Ned raised an eyebrow.

“See, the… _artefact_ we want won’t be sold. But we know it’s being kept in a warehou-”

“And?”

“And”, Jacob paused again, and Ned was under no doubt that it was for drama’s sake, his head bowed slightly so he could look the shorter man in the eye.

“Anything shiny? That’s yours.”

Ned snorted, stubbing out the end of his cigarette in the dirty ashtray on the windowsill. He knew exactly what Jacob was doing, repeating the same lines he’d said to him when they first met. It was a cheap trick, and Ned should have known better than to fall for it.

“Fine”, he murmured, trying to resist the urge to stare deep into the assassin’s hazel eyes, or think too hard about the lump in his throat. “Deal.”

Jacob grinned, a lopsided, cocky grin, and held out a hand for Ned to shake. The smaller man offered his hand in return, flickering between dazed and something else he didn’t particularly care to think about.

“That all?” He asked eventually, cringing slightly at how soft his voice had become.

“Yeah.”

 “Good. Now get the fuck out of my bar, Mr. Frye.”


End file.
